


Messieurs

by sarlojne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18580252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarlojne/pseuds/sarlojne
Summary: Enjolras is a bright, well-spoken, and passionate—if not overly-quixotic—student studying away in Paris, with a knack for politics and an impeccable sense of self-importance. But when he crosses paths with a young philosopher who goes by nothing more than a letter, his worldview crumbles and he finds himself questioning every value he ever held dear. He also worries he's falling in love.





	1. The Superego

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled onto this for the first time in two years and began to wonder why I never shared it. 
> 
> After a quick read-through, I realized that this work wasn't so much a fanfiction as it was a thinly-veiled means of grappling with my own coming-of-age. Reading it now, it's almost laughable how obvious of a self-insert my Enjolras is. It's also fascinating to watch him through the lens of hindsight and know how much is ahead of him. 
> 
> As a paean to growth, this is the unedited, original draft from 2017. All errors and unpolished writing choices are intact. I don't know if I'm going to continue writing where I left off, but as a form of forced catharsis, I'm posting it in the hopes that at least one reader sees him or herself in the characters and gets something out of their development. New chapters will go up unscheduled.

Enjolras was proud to be overworked. He hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours; he felt like a dead man. But, to be a dead man was invigorating. The pride and joy of every student in the Latin Quarter was that work always superseded sleep, because hard work built bright futures. Enjolras’ future was bright enough to blend seamlessly into the City of Light.

A political science student studying away in Paris, Enjolras’ ambition had landed him in a place most only dreamt of. But judging by the affable, almost movie-like quality to his accent, it was obvious that he was an American. His bedside wall was adorned with the star-spangled banner and a printout of FDR’s witticisms, and he often spoke of detailed domestic policies his international counterparts had only vague knowledge of. He loved his country wholeheartedly; if one overheard him discussing the United States without knowing the subject, he could easily be mistaken for a man rhapsodizing about his lover. 

However, Enjolras had been in his apartment for almost twenty hours with a box of Cheez-Its and an LSAT prep book on the night he stumbled upon the true love of his life. It was close to three A.M. when he was jolted from his studies by the sudden wig-wags of an ambulance, and fate set him in motion to meet Grantaire.  
Racing below his window on Boulevard Saint Germain, the ambulance’s sirens were loud enough to pull him away from his books and back to the reality of his bedroom. Once the sound receded, he was struck by the silence. 

“Has it always been this quiet?” he thought. 

He glanced over at the clock. The faintest tick, tick, ticks accentuated each moment he stared at its face, his eyes glazed over with exhaustion. Absentmindedly, he trailed his hand along his cheek and felt the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow.

“Right.” He hadn’t shaved recently and had a jaw full of brownish-blond stubble to show for it. “I ought to do that sometime.”

He looked down at his work again, and suddenly all of his pages of notes were indiscernible, a foreign language. It was odd how, upon glancing away for only a moment, hours of concentration could be broken like a piece of fine glass. 

Enjolras stood. His back ached; his stomach growled. His head throbbed as if it were being struck by a pendulum. He was miserable. Still, misery made him proud. He was someone who prided himself on how many historical facts he could memorize, how many legal briefs he could read, and how many policy books he could annotate. All of these took great suffering to properly achieve, and his efforts paid off. Enjolras was easily at the top of his classes, a recognized voice in grassroots-level politics, and a promising candidate for multiple Ivy League law schools. 

Fatigued, he shuffled into the bathroom and looked into the mirror, finding a half-asleep young man who appeared more akin to the overworked laborer than to the bourgeois gentleman he was raised to be. The typically well-coiffed locks of curly, golden blond hair that he always parted and swept to the side were falling into his face and cowlicked sideways. The soft, pale skin under his eyes was marred with purplish bags, swollen and tender to the touch. The way he kept himself washed, groomed, and perfumed had been abandoned entirely—he smelt like someone who hadn’t bathed in quite a while. 

This reminded him that he hadn’t bathed in quite a while. 

“Damn,” he muttered, beginning to strip himself of his pajama pants. “Damn, damn, damn…” 

The hiss of the shower soon filled the bathroom. Enjolras stepped into the stream of hot water and his muscles immediately unclenched. He breathed a short sigh of relief, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as the water ran down his body. 

Showers used to be a source of misery for him. They used to force him to look down and see a pair of breasts and a waist he despised. He was completely unsurprised to learn that he was transgender the moment he understood the concept. He was young when he figured it out—fourteen, to be exact—and young when he transitioned. The hormone therapy began at seventeen. Top surgery—the removal of breast tissue and reshaping of the chest—happened at eighteen. He opted out of “bottom surgery,” however; many trans men did. 

Showers used to remind him, in his nudity, that there was something he was hiding from the world. Now they were cathartic. They were opportune for viewing the scars across his chest that he bore with pride, the coarse brown hairs trailing over his skin, and the unmistakably male silhouette he’d spent years working to achieve. Now he’d look down at himself and smile, proud of his calves, proud of his thighs, and proud of the burgeoning set of abs he was cultivating at the gym. 

But none of this crossed his mind as he washed the oily, musty scent out of his hair. He’d grown so accustomed to viewing himself this way that “transness” no longer registered. It was old news. 

Rinsing and shutting off the water, Enjolras stepped out of the shower and went to the sink. He pulled his razor out of the cabinet, but paused. 

“Maybe I should grow it out,” he thought, glancing up at the mirror. He ran his fingertips across his jawline; his skin was sandpapery, rough to the touch. “I never grow it out.”

It had been almost a year since he’d allowed himself a beard. He couldn’t quite remember why he refused to keep one; perhaps it was simply a habit he’d never reconsidered. Now he was reconsidering. So be it. He placed his razor back into the cabinet and looked at his reflection, inspecting the stubble he’d pardoned from the blades. 

“It’s November anyway. That’s a thing, right? No Shave November?” He seemed to remember it being popular in the States. “Fuck it, then.” 

After pulling on a hoodie and joggers, he slipped into a pair of flip-flops and went to fetch his laundry from the communal machines in the building’s basement. 

Enjolras stepped into the elevator and pressed the last button. “On descend,” the voice answered politely. He leaned against the wall and waited as the numbers on the screen dropped lower and lower. The elevator stopped. “Niveau du sous-sol.” 

It was quiet in the basement. Enjolras listened to the sounds of his footsteps echoing in the hallway, only the gentle whap, whap, whap of his flip-flops resonating throughout. He neared the laundry room, hearing the whirr of the machines as he opened the door. 

However, the first thing that greeted him was the sight of his clothes strewn across the floor. 

Enjolras’ brow furrowed. He closed the door behind him and knelt to inspect his things, which had been dragged from the dryer and hauled into a corner. Everything was crumpled and covered in lint. Miscellaneous items littered the trail, with two pairs of red boxers—unmistakably his—brazenly displayed in the middle of the room. A small pile of shirts lay directly below his machine, which had been refilled with the clothes of whomever had discarded his belongings. 

With a deep scowl, Enjolras began picking up his things, dusting them off and shoving them into a laundry bag. “Asshole,” he hissed. 

He glared up at the dryer as if it had been a bystander. Catching a glimpse of the clothes that had replaced his, his eyes narrowed. “I wonder whose those are.” 

Craning his neck for a better look, he suddenly envisioned himself opening the machine, pouring bleach all over the Asshole’s clothes, and shutting the door. It was his first impulse—and his worst. He shook his head. Barbaric. 

However, while lifting the last of his underwear off of the floor and beating a piece of lint from it, his gaze fell to the dryer again. Another idea struck him. He pried open the machine door as the Asshole’s clothes were being tumbled and pulled them out, letting them spill onto the floor the same way his did. 

“Retribution,” he muttered, rearranging the clothes into a trail identical to the one he’d walked in on. A smirk found its way onto his lips as his efforts began to unfurl. There was lint on the person’s panties (it was a woman now; he didn’t care to find out who), and he made sure to display the panties on the floor just as his boxers were. He worked with increased vigor when he saw the duplication begin to take shape; she’d be pissed. God, revenge felt good. 

Yet, something forced him to stop. The smirk began to disappear. 

Enjolras set down a pair of the girl’s jeans and stared at his work. Her clothes were everywhere, tossed around like garbage. There was a fine layer of dirt clinging to all of the damp spots. It was the perfect replication.

He was very still for a moment. 

There he stood, Gyges wearing the ring, incognito used for evil. These were the types of things he judged other people for. Shit. 

“Wow,” his conscience drawled. “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

He pursed his lips, surveying the room with a disdainful eye. 

Enjolras understood that if he put things back the way they were, the Asshole would never know that she’d done wrong. But the reverie of simply letting her off the hook didn’t lift the guilt of ruining her laundry. He stared at the other machines blankly, watching them go ‘round, ‘round, and ‘round as if he were hypnotized. 

A short memory played in his head: Michelle Obama’s famous encouragement, “When they go low, we go high!” He could still picture the First Lady smiling from the podium as she imposed that simple, unforgettable bit of decorum onto liberals everywhere. It was feeble motivation, but motivation enough to pull him from his trance. It brought him back to the clothing pile, which he collected, dusted off, and placed back into the dryer with a sigh. 

He considered leaving it like that, with the door propped open and the laundry damp as a compromise between id and superego. But compromise wasn’t enough. Virtue doesn’t compromise. 

With another long, almost self-loathing sigh, Enjolras again pulled the girl’s clothes out of the dryer. He opened the door to the washing machine and placed them inside. He’d decided that the only way he could remedy the problem was to re-wash her clothes, dry them, and pay the tab. Sometimes he hated having morals.


	2. Crisis Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras deals with the ramifications of his morality. The author commits a cardinal sin by telling rather than showing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck around, thank you. I hope the read continues to be worth the stay.

An hour and a half passed. Enjolras sat cross-legged on the floor of the laundry room, watching listlessly as the girl’s clothes circled the dryer. The gentle flopping sound of the machine spinning her things was soothing at first; now the endless _fwump, fwump, fwump_ was like being punched again, and again, and again.

Sometimes they tortured prisoners in Guantánamo by blaring the same song until they were ready to say anything to make it stop. Enjolras thought dryly, "At least there, they might get a television in the laundromat."

“14 MINS RMNG,” the display read. He checked his watch. 4:35 A.M. His eyes began to slide shut.

 

_____________________________

 

Enjolras woke to the click of the dryer door, jolted out of a nightmare. With tremendous effort, he stood and cleaned the lint trap, making sure to get every dust bunny caught in the mesh.

His legs trembled with exhaustion. He felt light-headed and woozy, as if he would fall over if he took one step in the wrong direction. Was this what it felt like to be drunk? He didn’t know. Either way, somewhere in the primal depths of his brain, he had decided this was the perfect time for a run.

 

_____________________________

 

Enjolras in gym shorts, a university hoodie, a pair of Adidas. Enjolras dashing down Boulevard Saint Germain with the heavy breaths of an uphill-whipped mule. Enjolras wiping the sweat from his brow and flicking it to the side.

He didn’t wear headphones—he wanted to enjoy the sounds of the city. It was a shame that the city wasn’t making much noise at 4:52 A.M. Nevertheless, the occasional rumble of a passing car or the wail a far-off siren colored his trip down the street, adding life to the soundtrack of his ragged breathing and dragging feet.

Spaced out and sporting his best thousand-yard stare, he was a zombie chasing after nothing in particular. His mind was emptied except for a few repeated words: _Faster. Harder. Keep going._ Perhaps he was so stressed, exhausted, and emotionally debilitated that he’d finally tipped over the edge into insanity. Perhaps this was the same phenomenon that led businessmen to bars on Tuesday mornings, sobbing into their martinis because the big trade agreement fell through before lunch. Perhaps this was the same phenomenon that led investors to lock themselves in their offices and put pistols to their temples because it's always those  _really good, honestly the best_ stockbrokers that quit or because the market always seems to dip when interest is finally starting to build up. Perhaps this trembling, haggard jog from hell was merely the result of the boundless push-as-hard-as-you-can-and-you’re-bound-to-succeed mentality he had been imbued with since birth. Perhaps he’d finally hit his nadir.

But, then again, perhaps this obsessive, neurotic need to be productive at all times was the very thing that would launch him to success. Moments like this would be remembered as the high points on Enjolras' path to superstardom. Perhaps the soul-crushing studying, the merciless do-goodism, and the militaristic discipline he enforced throughout his life would give rise to the greatest politician the world had ever seen; dashing through the streets of Paris on a pair of quivering legs and a heart that felt like it was going to give out could have been the first steps to genuinely and truly altering the foundations of society.

He didn’t run much before coming to Paris—it simply took too much time. But upon reaching the City of Lights, he needed something to set him apart from his fellow countrymen. The stereotype of Americans he believed the French to hold stewed in his mind without end; it became his obsession, how the rest of the world viewed him. He ran every day, often twice, compulsively checking over his shoulder to be sure that someone saw him speed by.

As he passed a little cafe, its interior dark and its stools rested atop the tables, a decrepit, shaky smile found its way onto his tired lips. While the rest of the world slept, he was on the street making himself a better man. His breaths slipped from his mouth in aggressive huffs with every other fall of his left foot. Squinting against the glowing neon lights lining the shops. Hopping across a brackish puddle on the sidewalk. Trailing his fingertips across a dew-covered, wrought iron bench. Looking up into the darkened windows of the apartment buildings, hoping that at least one soul was stirring, someone to wave and smile at, someone to be acknowledged by.

But the truth was, no one here remembered him. No one was observing him, no one was judging him. If they knew him, it was because they knew of him; they’d heard that he was a nuisance. He was an overachiever, a yuppie, a bootlicker to everyone and no one. He was another young Sisyphus vying for the vague title of “best.” Best of what? Best of anything. Professors would smile and thank him as he turned in his essays, but they couldn’t put a face to his name when it came time to grade. Meanwhile, he would be sitting smug in his bed, imagining the sheer enlightenment they felt when they read what he had to say.

 

_____________________________

 

In the botanical gardens, just past a row of shrubs, Enjolras could see a painter paused in front of a half-finished canvas, deep in thought. His form was stiff, his arms folded tightly across his chest and his legs spread in a power stance as if he could intimidate the painting into completion. He shook his head. Without fanfare, he cast his brush into the grass and gazed up at the sky, raking his hands through messy hair.

Enjolras slowed, suddenly aware of every sound he made.

The painter turned, looking at him in confusion. He waved.

Enjolras nodded at him, returning the wave weakly.

“ _Bonsoir,_ ” the painter called.

“ _Bonsoir,_ ” Enjolras panted, crossing the street. “How are y—?” His breath stopped short, his chest seizing up. With a pained gasp, he collapsed onto the pavement and blacked out.


	3. Coup de Foudre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heart attack, a stranger, an ambulance. The beginning of all great love stories.

When Enjolras came to, there was a man hanging over him, dictating over the phone, “ _ Oui _ , I’m at the intersection of Rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire and Rue Buffon, adjacent to the botanical school...No, it’s just the two of us.” The stranger looked down. “He just opened his eyes. No, I don’t know his name. I didn’t check for an ID.” 

Enjolras touched the side of the man’s face to see if he was real. As his fingers brushed against a coarse beard, the man grasped his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “ _ Monsieur _ , are you all right?” he said, pulling the phone away from his mouth. 

Enjolras answered slowly, in a blend of garbled English and French, “What...is going on?  _ Qui es-tu? _ ”

The man spoke into the phone, “He’s talking to me. Sounds British.” 

“ _ Je viens des États-Unis _ ,” Enjolras murmured, closing his eyes. 

“American,” he said. Gently, he shook Enjolras’ shoulder until he opened his eyes again. “What’s your name?” 

Enjolras didn’t answer, instead gazing out into the street. The world was alien to him from this angle, everything turned on its side and light pouring out of the streetlamps like dying stars. Everything was too bright. He closed his eyes, but the man on the phone shook him awake again. 

“ _ Laissez-moi dormir _ ,” Enjolras protested. “I’m tired.” 

“Should I move him to the sidewalk?” he asked, ignoring Enjolras’ request. After a moment, his voice grew irritated, “And what if a car comes? You want us to get hit?” Another pause. “I’ll do my best.”

He muted the phone and carded his fingers through Enjolras’ hair to get his attention. Enjolras looked up at him, realizing that his head was cradled in the man’s lap. “I’m going to pick you up and take you to that sidewalk over there, okay?” He spoke slowly, in heavily accented English. “Let me know that you understand what I’m saying.” 

Enjolras nodded. 

The man lifted Enjolras’ head with surgical delicacy and then scooped him into his arms, stumbling once or twice as he tried to stand. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said. 

“No problem,” Enjolras replied. 

“Here, put your arm around me so you don’t fall.” 

He hooked one elbow around the back of his neck and rested the other hand on his chest. “Is this okay?” It felt like they were about to waltz. 

“Yes, that’s fine. Are you comfortable?”

“I am, thank you.” He leaned his head on the man’s shoulder as he carried him across Rue Buffon. “You’re very strong.”

The man gave a small laugh, his chest vibrating against Enjolras’ palm as he spoke, “Well, that’s what ten years of boxing will get you. And a month of dancing.” 

“You dance?” Enjolras asked feebly. 

“Not well—I’m new to it. Picked it up on a whim after seeing a performance of  _ La Bayadère _ at the Théâtre du Châtelet. But I give it my best shot, and that’s what matters, right?”

Enjolras, closing his eyes again, smiled against the man’s shoulder. “That’s nice, wish I could do that.” 

“Do what? Dance?”

“Just do stuff…’cause I feel like it.”

As they reached the sidewalk and the stranger laid him down on a bench, he asked, “Well, what’s stopping you?”

“Can’t stop working.”

The man laughed again. “Ah, I’ve rescued another slave of capitalism! Maybe I should have just left him in the street instead.”

Enjolras, amused, opened one eye and found the man kneeling next to him on the sidewalk, peeling off his coat. He laid it overtop of Enjolras’ chest, saying, “I’m supposed to keep you warm until the medics arrive.” 

Enjolras pulled the coat up to his chin, catching the scent of cigarettes in its fabric. “Smoker?” 

“Is it obvious?” Enjolras nodded, still smiling at him in amusement. “Oh well, too late to cut down now.”

“Smoking kills,” Enjolras mused.

“Yeah? So does running so hard you have a heart attack in the middle of the road.” 

“Was that what that was?” He shook his head, trying not to laugh.  

“You missed the part where I gave you CPR.”

He sat up in surprise, but the man coaxed him back down. “Don’t worry too much, that’s why I called an ambulance. They’re going to make sure I did it right.”

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. “You saved my life.”

“Well,” the man jested, “who wouldn’t?” He paused. “You’re sounding much more sensible than you were before, though. How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy, but I’m glad to have an entertainer with me.”

The man beamed. “I’m flattered,  _ monsieur _ .”

“Oh, please,” he murmured. “No need for formalities. My name is Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” the man repeated, slow and gentle. “That is an  _ aggressively _ French name. Are you sure you’re an American?”

“My family emigrated from Toulouse in the forties—that’s the best explanation I can offer.”

He nodded, closing his eyes as if picturing something. “Toulouse. An interesting place; I had a rabbi who practiced briefly at Synagogue Palaprat before coming here.” After a moment, he added, “That guy was a real prick.”

Enjolras laughed. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

The man beamed again, and Enjolras noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly when he did. “Don’t apologize,  _ Monsieur Enjolras des États-Unis _ . There are some people on this planet who don’t deserve an apology on their behalf.” 

Enjolras returned the smile. “I’ll try to take that advice to heart.” 

The man held his gaze, a charmed look to his expression. Suddenly, he shook his head. “I don’t think I introduced myself.” He stuck his hand out. “Grantaire.” 

Enjolras squeezed his hand. His shake was firm and warm, comforting to the touch. “Grantaire,” he repeated. 

“It’s not easy on the ears,” he chuckled, “but I don’t get much say in what I’m called.” 

Enjolras felt how his fingers were calloused like a carpenter’s, with coarse black hairs trailing from his knuckles to his wrist before disappearing into his hoodie. He looked up at him, finally taking a moment to study his appearance. He was broad-shouldered, tall, and handsome in a renegade sort of way. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken one too many times, and his hair was chocolatey brown—long, curly, wild like Greek sculpture. His eyes gave the appearance of troubled tenderness; he seemed the type to be always lost in thought. Enjolras was instantly smitten.

Hesitating to let go of his hand, he felt his heart beat just a bit faster as Grantaire flashed him a smile. 

“So, how long are you staying in Paris?” he asked, leaning forward and placing one hand on the bench. 

“Until June. I’m in a study-away program.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, his baritone shaking with laughter, “university. The abattoir of adolescent dreams. Tell me, Enjolras, have your ambitions gone to the slaughter yet?”

“Not yet. They still have places to take me.” 

Grantaire cocked an eyebrow. “And what are these places?”

“Law school. Harvard, specifically.” 

He clasped one hand over his heart and leaned backwards melodramatically. “ _ Que c’est beau! _ What a dream!” 

“ _ Ah, merci.  _ I’ve wanted it all my life.”

“I can only imagine. Magnificent!”

“What do you study?”

“I actually graduated last year from the University of Paris, where I made the mistake of getting a master’s in philosophy. I may be living paycheck-to-paycheck, but at least I know my Foucault.” 

He scoffed. “I can only imagine how difficult employment is to come by.”

“Don’t tell me twice. Right now I’m a freelancer. People hire me as a painter or a photographer, but I also write things in my spare time. Sometimes a magazine will buy my manuscripts, sometimes not. That’s when I use them as kindling in the fireplace.” 

Enjolras gave a deep laugh. “That’s horrible.” 

Grantaire shrugged. “Karma.” 

With that, they heard the early rumblings of a siren one street over. 

“Our valiant paladins approach.” Grantaire flagged the ambulance down as it rounded the corner. 

“What about your painting?”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t very good.”


End file.
